


Apple-Cold

by madeinessos



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dehumanization, F/F, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Oviposition, Temperature Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23265613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madeinessos/pseuds/madeinessos
Summary: Noura follows that scent. She knows what it means. Horniness is afoot.
Relationships: Underage Alpha Daughter/Her Omega Mother in Heat
Comments: 6
Kudos: 62
Collections: All The Nice Things Flash Exchange 2020





	Apple-Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eidetic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eidetic/gifts).



The house is empty.

That’s okay, though. It’s still got a lot of nice things in it. Pots of fresh plants, parquet floors, and a heavy tart-sweet perfume floating from the sitting room.

Noura follows that scent. She knows what it means. Horniness is afoot.

Another deep breath. Oh, that’s good. It’s a slap of recognition, kind of like a food craving. Well, if the craving were a slideshow packed with memories of her first ever masturbation session. Unlocked door and a tingling cunt. Horny levels through the roof, and absolutely loving it. Getting to know her ovipositor. Good times. Leftover oatmeal afterwards has never tasted better.

Mama shut herself in her room for five days after that, Noura recalls, and then emerged to snipe at her about leftover oatmeal.

The ice cubes in her glass clink; Noura swirls the summer-perfect cold apple juice in her mouth. Pretends it’s wine. She gets to drink wine in a few more months, which she doesn’t plan on starting, anyway, because she dislikes the taste of murdered and mummified grapes, and tangentially, she fucking hates fruit cake. So for now Noura holds her glass with a deceptively loose grip, with what her father used to call a goddamned self-satisfied teenaged peacockery, and for now she ambles down the hallway in her green ankle boots, which are totally against her boarding school’s dress code.

Noura tosses things aside as she goes by. Dusty valise right in front of the back door. Non-regulation hat on the balustrade. Blood-stained blazer on the hallway telephone. Striped tie on a clutter of used champagne flutes. Noura’s undoing a third button of this irritating cotton blouse when she reaches the sitting room.

And there sits Mama.

Draped across the closed lid of the grand piano. Face pressed down on her arm, shoulders hunched.

She smells so nice.

And she’s making these little noises, these almost pained and nicely stuttered breathy little noises. Her red dress swoops from the back of her shoulders to a point very low on her spine, and the bared flesh, the dark gold of sand dunes, glistens slightly. Or maybe it’s more of amber honey since it looks totally lickable right now. And her feet, encased in red high heels, are jiggling without rhythm.

Mama could use some cold apple juice right now, could she, Noura thinks with a light laugh.

Noura’s feeling quite warm, too. She undoes another button before stepping over the threshold.

It’s like stepping into a room full of bad choices.

Smells so lush, though.

And Noura wants this, so it can’t be that bad.

Noura always takes what she wants.

“Had a party, Mama?”

Mama slowly lifts her head.

Her mouth is red. Painted a matte red. Wide and full and slightly parted. It goes well with the sheen of sweat on her forehead, with the rubies on her ears peeking through her mane of tight black curls.

Very pretty.

Noura preens. She’s always been told that she takes after her mother.

She lifts her glass to her lips, never taking her eyes off Mama’s. “Shouldn’t you be up in your room?”

Mama’s dark eyes follow the ice cubes, then the glass rim, then Noura’s front teeth.

Then Mama shudders. “No,” she says at last. Her voice is paper-thin, as though all the liquids in her body has turned into the hot sweat glistening on her collarbones and into that thick wet musk pervading the room. As though she really needs Noura’s apple juice here.

“No, I’m waiting. Where’s your father?”

Noura smiles humourlessly. “Oh, Mama. You never learn, do you?”

Mama slumps against the piano again. “You can be clever another time,” she says, tinged with her usual barbed delicacy. “Answer the question, please – and stop laughing like that.”

“Knew you’re still in there, Mama,” chortles Noura. She draws even nearer, until Mama’s scent – red, matte, maddening – is caressing her. “Got anything to add? Have you seen my shoes? Why didn’t you come with the car to the station? I had a surprise for you.”

“Noura,” Mama grits out, “ring your father, please. Please. Noura, please.”

She twitches on the chair again. Look at that. Oh, she’s so distressed.

She really looks like a shop mannequin, does Mama. A quivering, softly moaning, ripe-smelling doll. She’d go well with this apple juice.

Noura feels sweat beading above her upper lip. Feels sweat dripping from behind her ear, strong with her own scent.

She dips two fingers into her glass. And, smiling, she rubs her apple-cold fingertips against Mama’s lower lip.

Mama’s eyelids droop lower, her nostrils flaring as she catches a full blast of Noura’s pulse point. For a moment, she presses her lips together. Tightly.

Delight and frustration surge in Noura: Mama’s trembling chin and pained dewy eyes are so pretty, yeah, but come on, she can be tight in other ways instead.

“Come on,” Noura says, tone sharp. “I’m being nice here. Open your mouth.”

She shoves her pulse point in Mama’s face.

And then Mama obediently wraps her lips around Noura’s fingers – tongue wet and hot and greedy – and sucks.

Oh, god. It’s like another cunt.

Noura breathes in slowly. Molten heat is starting to spread from her own cunt.

She sinks her other hand into Mama’s hair and massages her scalp, petting her, making her moan wetly around Noura’s fingers.

“There we go,” rasps Noura.

Mama has always needed and wanted someone to take care of her, pamper her, spoil her, even. Well, Noura can do that. Noura wants to do that.

To an extent.

Noura has her own preferences, after all.

Father never knew how to take care of his things, but Noura does.

She keeps petting Mama’s scalp, the finger pads of her right hand firm and soothing. Then she shoves her two left-hand fingers further into Mama’s mouth.

Mama’s cunt-mouth starts fluttering, clacking. Mama’s tears starts welling up. God, that’s hot.

Noura laughs. She tightens her hand in Mama’s hair into a fist, to steady her.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

Noura sets her glass on a foot stool. Then she pulls Mama to her feet. But with Mama’s current state, half frowning and half panting, it’s easy to just pull up her arse from the piano chair, her knees still bent, and maneuver them both so Noura can have the chair and so that she can push Mama, gently, face first against the piano.

And then, fingers splayed, Noura starts slipping the red silk up.

Up, along the back of Mama’s thick thighs.

Up, past the sublime curve of her arse.

Noura stops when it’s rucked up around Mama’s hips. She stops, and stares. And catches her breath.

Oh wow.

Mama is so fucking wet.

No, not just wet. Sopping. Brimming with that tart-sweet musk. Dribbling unbelievable warmth. Oh god.

Oh, yeah.

Noura herself is very wet. And she can feel her ovipositor growing from the molten heat of her cunt. Throbbing.

“Mama, did you misplace your knickers?” Noura says, a bit hoarsely, whilst reaching into her glass. “Like daughter, hm?”

“Noura,” Mama says, and trails off. Her one foot on the floor wobbles in its high heeled shoe.

Squeezing the plump flesh of Mama’s hip with one hand, Noura nudges an ice cube against Mama’s cunt lip.

Mama yelps. She shudders against the piano, hips bucking, her bared V of back muscles glistening. Her cunt clenches, and clenches madly, dribbling more wetness. Noura scoops up the wetness with the ice cube. Slides the ice up and down Mama’s hot dripping cunt, up and down and up, in time with her desperate clenching, with her tight gasps. She moves her other hand from Mama’s hip to her cunt. Thumbs it slightly open. Kisses her clit with hot thumb and melty ice cube.

Apple juice melting with glossy cunt wetness and matte red musk. Summer-perfect.

Noura pops the ice in her mouth and sucks on it like a sweet.

Then she stands. Crowds into Mama, and roughly fucks into her.

Mama lets out a strangled moan. “Noura,” she gasps, “Noura.”

Damn right. Noura has to take a moment.

She crunches on the rest of the cunt-sweet ice cube. Leans one hand on the piano, next to Mama’s pale-knuckled grip. Amber honey against reddish dun.

“Okay.” Noura exhales. She grinds against Mama, just a little, trying to get her bearings. And Mama clamps down, hard.

Noura licks her lips, tosses a stray curl out of her eye. Her blouse is hanging open, but she can’t be bothered to take it off fully.

This is definitely better than wanking.

How, though?

Noura rolls her hips once. Mama’s cunt, already clenching around her girth, follows the movement. Wet, plush, as though trying to milk her. As though trying to gulp her back in.

A shiver ripples up Noura’s spine.

“We’ll be really careful, Mama, don’t worry. I know you don’t want to waste this perfectly tuned piano.”

Noura slides out, slowly. And fucks back in, hard.

She does it again. Another stroke. Slow, hot, hard.

Swirling it in her mouth. Taking her time, savouring Mama’s cunt. Mama’s cunt which is Noura’s, too, like it has never been anyone else’s.

And she does it again. Slow. And hot. And hard.

And Mama starts coming.

Oh god, oh god. Fuck.

Mama’s orgasm has seized her like a storm. She spasms, she twitches, she grinds stickily against Noura. Mama’s knee slips down from the piano lid. Her red heels totter, slip halfway off her feet.

Noura fucks in again, hard. And again, slow, hard, and Mama is still squelching around her. Broken moans tumble out of Mama. Her clawed grip on the piano squeaks. She’s keening, and still coming, and now starts wailing, and Noura fucks her through it.

Hard.

Slow.

Dazedly, she thinks that Mama’s scent has been lapping her up. Urging her on.

By the time Noura comes, rolling out her seeds into Mama, into that deep hot place where she herself once lived, the ice cubes have all melted.

Mama is an exhausted heap in her arms. Limp like a doll. Sweaty. Tawdry. Heat-scented.

In her moments of clarity during the heat, Mama still asks for Father. Noura doesn’t bother answering. There’ll only be empty weepy glasses and crumbs of appalling fruitcake around here from now on.

Noura’s home now.

The house is mostly empty.

_fin_


End file.
